by Stuart Moore
“Oh,” he said, then found himself at a loss.
“I’m telekinetically keeping your optic blasts in check. I just wanted to see your face.” She flashed an embarrassed smile. “You have a good face.”
“How can you do that?”
“Like I said, a lot of things are different.” She swept her fingers lightly across his cheek. “But a lot of things are the same.”
A thousand questions crossed his mind, all at once. For once he forced them out of his mind. He took her in his arms, pressed her gently down to the blanket, and kissed her. She gasped, wrapped her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss with an intense, hungry passion.
They lay there for a long time, entwined, lost in each other. Hot sun beating down on their backs. Their hands strayed and roamed along each other’s bodies, touching, testing. Remembering, rebuilding the bond that had linked them together since they’d first met, all those years ago, in Professor Xavier’s class.
At last she rose, propped herself on one elbow, and stared at him. “I want to tell you everything,” she said.
He nodded eagerly.
“It’s not that simple,” she said. “You may not like what you see.”
He smiled, touched her face. “Looks okay so far.”
She grimaced briefly. Then, all at once, she reached out and touched his forehead. He gasped as images flooded through his mind. The feel of Magneto’s ribs snapping under her power, the heat of the deadly magma flowing all around. The children on Kirinos, snatching her purse and shoving her into the water. The police station; the first meeting with a handsome, friendly stranger.
The images grew more surreal. A secret closet with a night-black corset. A portrait of the stranger, or his ancestor, hanging on the wall. The thrill of a fierce steed galloping beneath her. An animal that was really a man, facing bloody death at her hands. And a final glimpse of the handsome stranger… just yesterday, outside Frost Enterprises, as the X-Men made their escape.
When Jean removed her hand, Scott blinked. It took him a moment to remember where he was.
“That’s a lot to process,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“This… man…”
“Wyngarde.”
“In the vision… the one in the past. You were married to him?”
“I’m—I’m not sure.”
“But he mentioned the Hellfire Club.”
“Yes. Definitely.”
He sat up, shaking his head. Reached for his visor, then remembered he wasn’t wearing it.
“What are we being drawn into, Jean?”
“I don’t know.” She knelt up behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders. “But I think I know what we have to do.”
He turned, curious.
“I’d like to re-establish our psychic bond,” she said. “The one we used to have, before I… before the shuttle accident.”
“Of course. Yes.”
“Not so fast.” She stared into his eyes. “My powers are different now. My telepathy… it’s much stronger. This would be a real sharing, Scott. Part of me in your head, part of you in mine.”
He nodded.
“Total communication,” she continued, her voice breaking. “Total intimacy, total trust. I know I’m asking a lot, and I-I would totally understand if you weren’t ready… if you didn’t want to…”
He touched her cheeks, turned her face gently toward his. Wiped a tear from her beautiful eye.
“I do,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANGEL’S HOUSE boasted a screened porch, fully automated kitchen, three dens with satellite TV hookups, a four-lane bowling alley, and a lounge equipped with every conceivable gaming platform. Plus two tennis courts indoors and three more out back, fenced off from the edge of the butte.
Logan wanted none of it. He prowled around, up and down flights of stairs, until he came to a basement room with a grimy, graffiti-etched bar. CRT-screen television suspended from the ceiling, next to a framed marlin hanging on the wall. Even a neon sign for Schlitz beer.
Not a single window to let in natural light.
He sniffed the air, hardly daring to believe the evidence of his enhanced senses. Behind the bar, next to a stack of plastic cups, an ancient tap was still filled with some stale, pre-microbrew beer. Logan let out a long, exhausted sigh, poured a cup, and planted himself at the bar. The wooden stool creaked underneath him.
Ten minutes and four plastic cups later, he’d almost managed to forget the things that were eating at him. That telepath witch poking around in his mind. The fact that he’d had to be rescued by a kid who was barely out of diapers. And, most of all, Jean Grey’s strange return from the dead—so soon after he’d had to face losing her.
He downed a fifth beer and crushed the cup in his hand. Logan’s healing power meant that alcohol moved through his system at an incredible clip. No matter how much he drank, the buzz only lasted a few minutes.
He could never truly forget.
“There you are.”
He turned toward the door, unsurprised. He’d heard the newcomer a mile away. Warren Worthington descended the staircase, his wings carefully folded around his body.
“I, uh…” Worthington stepped into the room. “I see you found my little sanctuary.”
Logan rose, moved to the tap, and poured another cup.
“It’s about my speed,” he said.
“Listen…” Worthington’s gaze strayed to the pile of discarded cups. Suddenly, Logan hated him—those pretty eyes, those carefully sculpted muscles. A rich kid, born to privilege, and told every second of his life how special he was. Had he ever gotten those lily-white hands dirty?
“I’ll pay for the beer,” Logan growled.
“No, no, it’s not that.”
Worthington reached onto the bar, picked up a remote control, and aimed it at the hanging TV. It took a long time to flicker to life. Logan frowned, looked up at the screen. There was no picture—just block letters.
OMNI-WAVE PROTOCOL
CONNECTION REQUESTED
LOGAN PLEASE ACCEPT
He turned to Worthington. “What the hell is an Omni-Wave protocol?”
“I have no idea. But that signal is interfering with every screen in the building.”
“So take a message.”
“It won’t respond to any of us.” Worthington looked impatient. “Would you just accept it so we can finish our GTA game? Colossus was winning, and I can’t let that kid beat me in my own house.”
Logan gestured at the screen. “What if it’s the Hellfire Club or something?”
“I doubt they’re attacking us with person-to-person phone calls.”
Logan shrugged, conceding the point.
“I got it,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Thanks.” Worthington tossed him the remote. “Oh, and leave some beer for the rest of us, huh? It’s tough to get trucks out here.”
Logan glared at the door as Worthington left. Then he walked back to the tap and poured himself two fresh cups. Paused, and poured a third. Then he aimed the remote control at the TV and pushed play. No response. He tried input, audio, unmute, and the up and down channel and volume buttons. Nothing. The message remained on the screen.
He planted himself back on the stool, leaned forward, and fixed the TV with his best stare.
“Logan,” he said. “Hit me.”
There was no wavering of the image, no sense of transition. All at once the message was gone, replaced by the crystal-sharp face of Professor Charles Xavier, founder of the X-Men. He glared out of the screen, eyes intense beneath his bald pate.
Logan almost spat out his beer.
“You certainly took your time,” Xavier said.
“Charlie?”
“Logan, I have asked you not to call me that.” Xavier’s voice was so clear, he might have been standing in the room. “I answer to Professor, Professor Xavier, or if you must, Charles.”
“Got it, Chuck.”
Xavier shook his head and moved away from the camera. He wore a strange red-and-black tunic, and his usual wheelchair had been replaced by a sleek hover-device of some kind. The walls behind him were featureless metal, broken up by floor-to-ceiling viewports showing a field of stars.
“What’s this about?” Logan demanded. “Where the hell are you, anyway?”
“On a world called Imperial Center, very far from Earth. My consort, Lilandra, is about to be crowned Empress Majestrix of the Shi’ar Empire.”
Logan nodded. Shortly after the shuttle accident, Xavier had fallen in love with the Princess Lilandra Neramani, heir to the throne of an empire that had ruled an alien galaxy back when terrestrial life was still learning to walk on land. When Lilandra was called back to assume the throne, Xavier had gone with her. None of the X-Men had heard from him since.
“Empress,” Logan repeated. “Sounds like you’re comin’ up in the world, Chuck. Or worlds, I guess.” He lifted his cup in a toast.
“It is… difficult, actually. Lilandra’s increased responsibilities are taking up more and more of her time.”
“Relationships.” Logan shook his head. “Didn’t know it was so easy for you to call home, Chuck. Kind of makes me feel neglected—on behalf of the team, I mean.”
“There’s nothing easy about it.” Xavier’s brow furrowed. “I had to bribe a Kree high official just to get ten minutes on this— oh, there’s no time to explain. I’ve received a disquieting packet of data from Moira MacTaggert. She’s concerned about a situation that directly affects the X-Men.”
Logan felt the effects of the beer fade away. As sobriety returned, so did the worries that had been occupying his mind. “You’ve missed a lot, Chuck. Never thought I’d say this, but I wish you were here.”
“As do I,” Xavier replied. “In fact, I plan to return to Earth as soon as possible after the coronation.”
“We’re up against some crazy Ren-fair freaks or something,” Logan continued. “They got a telepath—this witch that can get right inside your head. She went after this teenage kid—”
“Logan!”
He looked up, startled.
“None of that—nothing else matters.” Xavier leaned forward. “This is all about Jean.”
Logan lowered his beer. “Keep talking.”
“Has she seemed… different to you?”
“You mean less dead than she was?”
Xavier just glared.
“Yeah, she has,” Logan admitted. An’ I’ve been too preoccupied to deal with it, he thought. Cryin’ in my beer over some witch messing with my head, while Jeannie needs me.
“I believe a part of you knows what’s going on with her,” Xavier said. “In fact, you may be the only one who can understand.”
“It’s my fault,” Logan replied. “When Jeannie crashed the shuttle last year… I never should’ve let her do it.”
“Muzzle your self-pity, Logan. Had you stopped Jean from piloting the shuttle, all of us would be dead.”
Wolverine blinked. “Charlie, that might be the first time you’ve ever given me a good review.”
“I am not calling to compliment you.”
Logan peered at the screen, eyes sharp. Something in Xavier’s tone had awakened the predator in him. That’s what I am, he thought. The predator in the group.
“I need the Wolverine,” Xavier continued, “for a mission.”
There it is.
Logan downed his beer, slammed the cup on the bar, and turned to face the screen.
“You got him,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“SORRY, ORORO,” Kitty Pryde said. “No luck with the wicked witch’s ‘Massachusetts Academy.’”
The girl’s voice was tinny over the phone’s speaker. Storm shifted the device in her hand so that Colossus, sitting next to her, could see as well. “Oh! Hey, Peter,” Kitty said. “Tight suit.”
Colossus pulled nervously at his collar. “Hello, Katya.”
Storm smiled. I can see where this is going, she thought.
They sat in the back of an elegant limousine, parked on the edge of Midtown Manhattan just three blocks west of Avengers Tower. Colossus—Peter—wore a three-piece tuxedo, perfectly fitted to his massive frame. Storm had chosen a long white dress with an African-patterned hem on the sleeves and wrap.
Wolverine and Nightcrawler sat in the opposite seat, both wearing their X-Men uniforms. Nightcrawler leaned forward, listening to Storm’s conversation. Wolverine just stared out the tinted window, his mask raised to reveal his scowling eyes. His mood seemed even darker than usual.
“Thank you for trying, Kitty,” Storm said. “We should have expected Ms. Frost to have excellent security.”
“Security? Nah, ’Roro, I broke through the firewall like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Trouble is, all the records are squeaky clean. Transcripts, teacher evaluations, term-paper assignments. There’s even a photo of a prom.”
“A prom?”
“Yeah.” Kitty grimaced. “I think they ’shopped it to make it look more multicultural, but that’s the biggest crime I can find.”
“No mentions of the Hellfire Club?”
“Or just Hellfire?” Nightcrawler added. “Or Club?”
“Sorry. No mutants in cages, no blank-faced goons.”
Well, Storm thought, sweeping her wrap around her shoulders. That—as they say in this country—is that. “I must go, Kitty,” she said. “Once again, we appreciate your—”
“Wait!” Kitty leaned forward, her face looming almost comically large on the screen. “Are you gonna infiltrate the whips-and-chains gang? Can I come along?”
“Not this time, child.” Storm smiled sweetly. “But remember, if you get the slightest hint that they may be after you again, contact me immediately. Personally.”
Kitty nodded unhappily.
“We will see you soon,” Storm said. She clicked the phone off.
“A girl who can walk through walls would be useful on this mission,” Nightcrawler suggested.
“I will not risk Kitty’s life again,” Storm said firmly. “It was I who brought her into this, and the Hellfire Club almost killed her. We are trained for this sort of thing, while she is—Peter will you please stop fidgeting?”
Colossus froze, embarrassed.
“Does your suit not fit right, mein Herr?” Nightcrawler asked.
“It is not that.” Colossus looked down. “I have never worn clothes like these… They feel marvelous. Yet it does not feel right to wear a suit that costs more than my father earns in a year.”
“I don’t know.” Nightcrawler leaned back against the plush seat, hands folded behind his head. “I’m getting rather accustomed to traveling in luxury vehicles.”
Wolverine let out a snort.
Storm touched Colossus’s knee. “You are homesick.”
He nodded. “It has been too long.”
“Let us get through this crisis, little brother. Then we will see about arranging you a visit to Russia.”
He flashed her a small smile.
Storm leaned forward and rapped on the opaque front window. The barrier slid down to reveal Cyclops and Jean, their faces nearly touching in the small window space. They, too, were dressed in evening clothes—Scott in a black jacket and tie, Jean in a long black backless gown.
“We’re up to speed, Ororo,” Cyclops said. “Jean’s been monitoring everything.”
Ororo frowned. Monitoring? Jean, like Professor X, had linked the X-Men together telepathically in the past. To Storm’s knowledge, however, she’d never eavesdropped on their thoughts without explicit permission.
“Kitty struck out, people,” Cyclops continued. “That means it’s up to us. We’re going in.”
Storm hesitated. The Hellfire Club was about to celebrate its biggest birthday party since the turn of the millennium. Warren Worthington had managed to obtain four invitations for the X-Men under assumed names. It was the best plan they’d managed to come up with, un
der the circumstances. And yet…
“Cyclops,” Nightcrawler said, “are we certain that you are not simply walking into… well, a trap?” He paused. “A deathtrap, perhaps?”
“It’s a risk,” Cyclops acknowledged, “but there’s no indication that the White Queen and her allies know we’re coming. More importantly, I don’t see a good alternative. We have no hard evidence connecting Emma Frost with the Hellfire Club, and we can’t afford to be wrong about this. We need proof, one way or the other.
“Ororo, Peter: once you’re inside, keep a low profile,” he continued. “See what you can learn through eavesdropping and casual conversations. If you manage to get close to someone who’s clearly Hellfire Club, do not engage them. The last thing we need right now is to draw their attention.
“No phones—they’re not secure. Jean will link our minds telepathically… we’ll be in constant contact.”
Wolverine looked up sharply. “That go for me an’ the elf, too?”
“Everyone, Logan.”
What’s the matter, Logan? Jean’s voice sounded in all their minds. Afraid I’ll learn all your secrets?
“I like my privacy, Jeannie.”
She blinked, then spoke aloud. “Sorry… just joking. I’ll confine my scans to surface thoughts.”
Wolverine nodded and reached for the door latch. “Let’s get this over with.”
“One more thing,” Cyclops said. They all turned to face him. Even Colossus stopped picking at his collar.
“The Hellfire Club took three of you hostage. They experimented on you, poked around in your heads.” He paused. “I know it was a wrenching experience. If any of you want to back out of this, I completely understand—but it’s got to be now. Storm?”
She grimaced, remembering. The White Queen had only performed a brief scan on her before turning her attentions to Wolverine, but Storm could still recall the woman’s icy mental fingers in her brain, the chill sensation of thoughts being probed and analyzed.
“I am fine, Scott.”
